


Wisp of a Cloud

by KrisseyCrystal (AisukuriMuStudio)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Summer, self-indulgent summer aesthetic fluff tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:12:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6999112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AisukuriMuStudio/pseuds/KrisseyCrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nostalgia can cast shadows, as much as it can warm. The worst part is it's unpredictability. Even on a summer day, Zevran finds, nostalgia makes him miss that which he's so glad to be rid of on other days. </p>
<p>But that's okay. Alistair makes it better.</p>
<p>(Like what the tag says. A soft, fluffy, pointless, self-indulgent summer aesthetic drabble. And some kisses.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisp of a Cloud

“Hm. Y’know, there are little things of the Crows which I miss sometimes.”

Alistair doesn’t lift his head from the ground. Idly his hand still pets and runs through what little of Zevran’s hair he has access to, since the elf’s head is resting on his stomach. He cranes his neck to try to see him, but it strains too much. He lets his head fall back to the earth. The grass gently tickles his ears. “Yeah?”

A quiet, affirming hum from Zevran. The elf blows at a dandelion he had picked, and the small seeds of white puff out to the wind.

Silence rests between them gently, lowering itself down beside them like a blanket.

Alistair’s hand stills. “…are…you gonna talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” Zevran responds. The elf tosses the stem of the dandelion to the side. One arm lays limp across his stomach; the other joins the ground. “Sometimes…it does not seem as important as other times.”

“What doesn’t?”

Zevran takes a breath. He carefully lets it go. Alistair feels every bit of it. “The…things I miss.”

Oh.

The clouds drift by, few though they are. Light and sparse, they let the blue of the sky shine through and the sun warm their skin. Zevran takes in another breath. “The House of Arainai had dinner together every night.”

“Oh?” Alistair tries not to sound too curious.

Zevran hums again. “Yes. It was imperative that we dined at the same table each evening. It was when we would share our tales from the day’s missions, and delight in each other’s successes.”

“What about the losses?”

Zevran chuckles a little, and it makes his head bounce against Alistair’s stomach. The Warden fights the urge himself to smile at the sensation. “Well…to be fair, I think that was also when we were able to mourn the losses, because we knew they existed.”

Oh.

Alistair supposes that makes sense. He presses his lips together, pulls his mouth into an admitting frown. He stares up at the sky as a wisp of a cloud passes by.

Zevran continues. “There were counsels, as well. Times when all of the Crows gathered together. We wore solemn robes, dressed in black.” He tilts his head a little bit. The angle tickles Alistair very slightly. “I had always forgotten just how many of us there were until those meetings. It was almost… _magical_ to be in their midst. To be one of the few, the _strong_ …to be part of something bigger than you were…”

It was almost magical to hear Zevran speak of it. Alistair gently began brushing his hair again softly with his gloved fingers.

After a pause, Alistair smiles. “Well, I’ve got news for you— _that_ much, hasn’t changed, at least. The whole, uh…being part of something bigger than you are.”

Zevran chuckles as well. The elf lifts his head, and rolls over to his hands and knees. He crawls over Alistair to straddle him, still smiling. “Yes. _That_ hasn’t changed,” he admits with a purr. He leans forward and gently seals his lips against the Warden’s in a slow kiss. When they part, he finds his hands have framed Alistair’s jaw, and he’s seated in the man’s lap. Alistair’s hands are rubbing his thighs.

 The elf hums again, thoughtfully. He watches Alistair’s face. Alistair watches his.

“Do you miss them now?” Alistair asks him.

A smile crosses Zevran’s face; it is small and slightly crooked. “Yes.” It comes out as a sigh. Even after everything, after _Rinna_ , which seems amazing and horrible at the same time—he still misses them. He raises his eyes back to Alistair’s afternoon-sun ones. His have softened. “They were _home._ ”

“Yeah,” Alistair rasps back. He didn’t miss a beat.

And when Zevran leans forward and presses his face into the nook between shoulder and neck, Alistair wraps his arms around the elf’s waist, holding him close.

“Yeah,” he repeats, a bit softer. Because that much, he could understand first-hand.

**Author's Note:**

> When I say self-indulgent, this was really self-indulgent. Like, I was feeling nostalgic myself the other day when I started writing this, because change is big. And in some ways, change sucks. But change is also really good, too. So I guess I just wanted someone else to feel what I've been feeling (or anticipating) lately, too. 
> 
> Self-projection, by this point, shouldn't be surprising. But at least it's getting me to write again.


End file.
